The Trunk to Razzmatazz

By A. R. Rand

MAGIC AIN'T FOR WIMPS! BOOK ONE—THE TRUNK TO RAZZMATAZZ: Oliver lives with his grandparents in Brooklyn. He never knew his parents, but life is good for the shaggy haired 11-year-old. He’s passing in school and has a best friend, Pamela, a skinny redheaded girl with luminous green eyes. Oliver takes music lessons with four little old ladies who live next door in the old Victorian house. The teachers, Miss Fitchett, Miss Appley, Miss Maffit and Miss Pennyfeather, are Pamela’s aunts. The neighbors think the old ladies are peculiar. They claim to have an imaginary companion – Mr. Ogilby. On a fateful Halloween night, Mr. Ogilby, a ruthless wizard, regains his powers and materializes. A magical spell connects Ogilby and Pamela causing Pamela to revert to her natural form, a cat. Her aunts were keeping this vital secret from Pamela. Ogilby is hell-bent on gaining immortality and needs Pamela as his familiar. Ogilby kidnaps Pamela taking her via the trunk in the belfry to Razzmatazz. Razz is a world of wizards and witches, magical creatures, and rockin’ 1950’s sci-fi. Razz is a wondrous world but also a world filled with danger as Oliver and Pamela soon discover. /What Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Expert Reviewers said about Bats in the Belfry! "This work of children's literature was very visually appealing and quirky. The author created a magical, alternative universe that looks like Pleasantville but is home to mythical creatures like dragons and trolls." / "Well-written and has an interesting concept of parallel worlds going for it. As long as there is a market for fantasy stories, this kind of book will probably be popular. " / "I enjoyed the way the witches referred to the mundane, human world as "the humbug world" and found all of the witches to be humorous and entertaining. They reminded me of my grandmother and her friends, meddling in everyone else’s business and being silly." / "The strongest aspect of the story would definitely be the author's ease at creating and delivering an entirely familiar, yet utterly unique and vivid world that mimics the 1950's and is home to witches and all sorts of fun, magical odds and ends." / "Boys and girls will really like this story since they will have Oliver and Pamela to travel with and Dennis the emerald colored dragon will surely entice them. Whoever imagined a fire breathing dragon that acted like a puppy dog?! I thought that was very fun and entertaining. Definitely would recommend to my friends who have young kids that enjoy magic."

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. A. Randazzo
• Release date: Apr 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005294212

Book preview

Bats in the Belfry – The Trunk to Razzmatazz / A. R. Rand 217

Table of Contents

BOOK ONE * THE TRUNK TO RAZZMATAZZ

Chapter 1 – Oliver’s Best Friend

Chapter 2 – Mystery Man

Chapter 3 – Charlie Cool

Chapter 4 – Oliver, Ace Detective

Chapter 5 – Pamela Calls Home

Chapter 6 – Halloween Surprise

Chapter 7 – Dark and Dangerous

Chapter 8 – The Uninvited

Chapter 9 – A Small Sacrifice

Chapter 10 – The Perfect Murder

Chapter 11 – The Old Battered Trunk

Chapter 12 – A Brighter Day

Chapter 13 – Masquerade Party

Chapter 14 – Squadron of Doom

Chapter 15 – To Tell the Truth

Chapter 16 – Who Do You Trust?

Chapter 17 – Mr. Wizard

Chapter 18 – I’ve Got a Secret

Chapter 19 – Captain Kangaroo

Chapter 20 –Your Show of Shows

Chapter One

Oliver’s Best Friend

No, I won’t go! cried Pamela. I won’t go!

Oliver could hear Pamela yelling from inside the house. Boy, for a skinny freckled girl Pamela sure had lungpower.

Oliver ambled along the long sidewalk, slouching as he walked, weighed down by a guitar case, a violin case, and loaded backpack, looking very much like a turtle with two heavy flippers. A gust of wind whipped his shaggy sandy hair around his head. He glanced up at the old Victorian house darkly looming against the gathering gray clouds. He was quite fond of the rambling three-story house; it had a charm all its own. The peaked dormer looked like a thick arrowhead piercing the sky. The gingerbread railing on the rounded first and second floor porches gave it a wicked fairytale look. Most intriguing of all was the belfry high atop the roof like some desolate lighthouse overlooking a stormy sea.

Oliver stopped at the foot of the front steps and cocked an ear to the porch. Pamela must be standing near the curtained bay windows. One of the windows was partially open on this crisp autumn day. An open window didn’t surprise him. Windows were always opening and closing by themselves. The swinging doors swooshed open when nobody was there, and the lights flickered as if they had the hiccups. Well, what could anyone expect? It was a spooky old house.

Oliver stumbled up the steps banging his figure eight guitar case into the railing. His grandmother said he was always in a hurry, never watching where he was going. He took umbrage with that, although he wasn’t exactly sure what umbrage meant. He didn’t bang into things on purpose. Something ahead always grabbed his attention, and he was eager to find out about it that’s all.

Oliver was eleven years old, slender and well proportioned. That is, until his latest growth spurt. He was at the age where his feet were too big for his body (which might account for some of his clumsiness). Yet, he could get those feet running fast. With more determination than skill, he usually won the running games at school. He did have a stubborn streak and could certainly be pig-headed if he thought he was right. Then again, he wasn’t so pig-headed that he wouldn’t hold out his hand to shake if someone proved him wrong. All in all, Oliver had a pretty darn good life in Brooklyn with his grandmother and grandfather. The only fly in the ointment was his name. The kids at school made fiendish fun of his name - Olive Oil, Olly the dolly, and Oil Slick were some of the favorite slams. He always had to prove himself because of his name and because of the notion - never spoken aloud, mind you - that it was geeky to play classical music. Actually, Oliver couldn’t choose between playing the classical violin or the electric guitar, so he lugged both instruments around for his lessons. He played many other musical instruments, too. He called it exploring his opts (as in options). His grandfather called it indecisiveness - a big word that meant Oliver wasn’t doing his homework. Maybe that was true, but Oliver figured he didn’t need things solid just yet. After all, he told his grandfather, if I don’t try my ‘opts’ now, I’m stuck in the mud before I hit twelve.

Who made these weird rules anyway? Music was music and a name was a name, so what was the big deal? Still, he felt that first class nerd was a label pinned on his back. Even so, no one argued that he was the fastest gamer blasting a three-headed, six-armed Nork from the Planet Xelecto.

The racket called Pamela was still going on. She didn’t want to go somewhere, but he couldn’t catch where that was. Pamela could be very annoying.

Pamela was ten years old, turning eleven on October 31 just a week away, and his best friend. They had pretty much patched up a little tiff they had at school the week before. Really, he was just having some fun calling her his ghoul friend. It had worked perfectly and nicely irritated her. He should have stopped there, but he didn’t. Twisting his body like a demented demon, he moaned that the ghosts of her parents would rise from their graves to blow out the candles on her birthday cake. Pamela didn’t think that was funny and knocked the books out of his hand. The books skidded across the hallway floor to a chorus of laughter from the other students. Oliver’s face turned bright red, almost as red as Pamela’s face as she glared at him with bugged-out eyes. A teacher saw the skirmish and sentenced Pamela to two days detention. At the time, he thought grandiosely that it served her right. Anyone born on Halloween should expect some good-natured kidding about it.

Later on, he felt guilty about what he had said. He thought that he deserved detention, too. Pamela was touchy about the parents she never knew. He shouldn’t have razzed her about them. He apologized by waiting for her after detention. She apologized by keeping her mitts to herself.

Now, as Oliver stood listening, he was a little pissed at Pamela. There was a good chance that he wouldn’t get his music lesson because of her tantrum. Okay, he was being selfish. Maybe he should be more concerned with why she was so upset with her aunts whom he assumed she was addressing. That upset could affect his lesson. The point being that, in addition to a residence, the old Victorian house was a music school and Pamela’s four aunts were the teachers there. Oliver didn’t know why but ever since he started taking lessons six years ago, the old Victorian felt like home and his teachers felt like family.

On the lawn was a weathered sign that read Ogilby Conservatory of Music for Young Artists. Considering the gossip, the name Ogilby generated in the neighborhood, it was an odd choice to name the school. Then again, his teachers - Miss Fitchett, Miss Appley, Miss Maffit, and Miss Pennyfeather - were mighty peculiar at times.

The peculiarities of his teachers didn’t bother Oliver and, when you think about it, everyone is peculiar in their own way. Of course, not everyone has an imaginary companion as his teachers did. This then was the source of all their peculiarity - the mysterious Mr. Ogilby.

The teachers were getting up in age, and that could account for their dotty ways. They greeted Mr. Ogilby, although no one was there, and set a place for him at supper. Oliver and the neighborhood, in general, knew that Mr. Ogilby was merely a figment of the old gals’ imagination, a polite way of saying they were nuttier than a fruitcake. While this most certainly could be true, Oliver was determined to find out about the elusive figment and had started his own investigation. One time, when Oliver was younger, he had gotten up enough courage to ask Miss Appley if Mr. Ogilby was a ghost haunting the creepy old house. She briskly replied that he was not a ghost but never explained further. She made it clear, however, that the subject of Mr. Ogilby was off limits.

Pamela was still yelling. What was her problem? Pamela and her aunts usually got along just fine.

Oliver set the instrument cases down on the porch and waited for the yelling to stop. Now that he thought about it, it really didn’t matter if he had a lesson or not. Old Gillies, as the students called the school, was his hangout. If he didn’t get a lesson, he would chill in the parlor as he usually did. He might even get around to doing his homework.

As far as Oliver knew, the teachers weren’t Pamela’s blood relatives, and her last name was McLane. He figured the old ladies adopted Pamela, although no one had ever said that outright. We raised her from a kitten, Miss Pennyfeather always liked to say.

Obviously, the teachers had never married since they were all Miss. They had different last names, so they weren’t related either. Pamela called them her aunties using their last names. He figured the teachers probably had dorky first names - Griselda or Willabella or Gardenia - and wanted to keep them secret. He could relate as the name game played in his mind - Ollie, Ollie bo-bollie. Banana fanna fo-follie. Fee, fy, mo-mollie. Ollie!

Oliver lived next door with his grandparents in a stately brick house, one of the pricier houses on the shady boulevard. He didn’t like the new crowd moving in adding modern touches to the old houses and changing the look of the cozy neighborhood. Oliver liked the neighborhood the way it was when the Brooklyn Dodgers played there. He wasn’t born back in the 1950’s, of course. He just picked up on things his grandfather said. His grandfather and his cronies talked about the Dodgers as if they were still in Brooklyn.

The old timers talked about something even more than baseball - Oliver’s music teachers. The scuttlebutt was that they were decidedly daffy. Harold Westcott, Oliver’s grandfather, always defended the teachers, maybe they are a bit eccentric, but I assure you, they’re quite harmless, he would say whenever anyone unkindly raised an eyebrow and claimed that the old gals had bats in the belfry.

Oliver shifted his keen hazel eyes to the cemetery on the other side of the house. The bare branches on the trees shuddered in the wind. Even in the day’s light, the tombstones were shrouded and creepy. Neighborhood kids dared each other to walk through the cemetery at night. Oliver was happy to take those bets. He had an important reason for wanting the money that had to do with his investigation of Mr. Ogilby. He had strolled through the graveyard many times, bolstering his courage by humming tunes to himself. On those nights, the old Victorian house looked like a shadowy pumpkin with glowing windows for eyes. The old timers said the house had just popped up one day long ago in an unused section of the cemetery. Oliver thought that would be awesome if it were true, but maybe the old timers should lay off the Geritol. Houses just don’t pop up out of nowhere.

The wind blew his hair over his eyes, blocking the view. His shoulder-length hair was a point of contention between his grandmother and him. He truly meant to get around to the barber one of these days.

Oliver pushed back the hair in his face and shivered in the cold breeze. He should have worn the heavy jacket his grandmother bought him. Instead, he had shoved the jacket into the back of his closet. He only wore a nicely ratty, but lightweight, black denim jacket. His grandmother was also on his case about the jacket and the way he dressed. He liked his worn jeans and beat-up sneakers. They were comfortable like old friends. He didn’t like the stiff new clothes in his closet that his grandmother had bought him. In any case, he wasn’t going to ditch the jacket no matter what anyone said.

Thunder rumbled and tumbling clouds threatened rain. A thunderstorm was brewing, and, from the shouting, a storm had already arrived inside. What was the matter with Pamela? Where didn’t she want to go?

It was too cold to wait outside any longer. Oliver turned the brass knob that looked like an open-mouthed gargoyle, twisting its head around. His teachers encouraged the students to walk in as the classrooms were on the second floor. Walking in saved the teachers from constantly going up and down the stairs to answer the door. The students were supposed to crank the doorbell to alert the teachers of their arrival, but this time Oliver wanted to slip in unnoticed and didn’t crank it.

A spicy scent hit Oliver as soon as he opened the door. Halloween was nearing and pumpkin pies were baking. The teachers were always baking delicious treats for the music students. He must have scarfed down about a million warm-from-the-oven cookies since he started classes at the school.

Oliver picked up his cases and stepped inside the door. He smiled to himself as he scanned the foyer. His teachers went all out decorating the house for Halloween. Hanging from the brass chandelier were cutouts of flying witches on broomsticks, arched black cats, and threatening ghosts. Orange and black garland wound around the staircase banister. Fanged bats, scary spiders, and sinister skeletons decorated the gilt mirror on the wall. On the table under the mirror, a candle flickered inside a huge carved pumpkin. Miss Pennyfeather was in charge of carving the pumpkins. In past years, her pumpkins had goofy faces with a wide smile and one tooth angling from the top lip. This pumpkin was different - it had a jagged grimace and angry eyes. The change made Oliver uneasy, perhaps because it was so at odds with his teacher’s bubbly personality. He fleetingly wondered why she had carved such a menacing face.

There was an open archway into the parlor on the left. Oliver couldn’t see Pamela from where he was standing, but he could certainly hear her. She was telling her aunts that they didn’t love her anymore.

What in holy baloney was going on?

Oliver set down his music cases under the pumpkin’s watchful eyes and peeked into the parlor, keeping out of sight behind the tied-back velvet drapes framing the doorway.

She was standing in the window alcove glaring at her aunts. A pale light shone through the lacy curtains outlining her frizzy red hair in a halo. Pamela looked anything but angelic. Whatever was going on between Pamela and her aunts was more than a difference of opinion. Tears streaked down Pamela’s face and glistened on her cheeks.

Miss Appley and Miss Pennyfeather stood in profile on either side of her. They looked upset, too, as if they were ghosts drained of color. Miss Fitchett and Miss Maffit had their backs to Oliver. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t really see them. He knew their faces well.

Pamela, it’s for the best, pleaded Miss Appley.

Miss Appley was petite, with a slight middle-aged spread around the middle, and silver curls crowning her head. All four teachers dressed in old-fashioned long dresses, making them look out of step with the times.

Stop all this nonsense, said Miss Fitchett in a flare of dark eyes. She was tall, thin, and straight-backed like a chair. She always wore her dark, gray-streaked hair pulled back into a bun.

What you’re saying is nonsense! cried Pamela.

Good come back Pammy, Oliver thought.

Please don’t be upset, cried Miss Maffit, her soft brown eyes filled with worry. She had a shapely figure and a satin ribbon tied back her long blondish gray hair.

Don’t cry, cried Miss Pennyfeather, bursting into tears herself. Miss Pennyfeather was short and the plumpest of the teachers with fluffy white hair and twinkling blue eyes. The twinkle was underwater now.

You have to go, said Miss Fitchett, and that’s that!

Pamela turned away from her aunts to the windows, now splattered with rain. Why did her aunts want to get rid of her? Oliver was puzzled. It didn’t make any sense. So, what if the teachers weren’t her real aunts. Pamela grew up in the house - the only home she knew.

Why was Pamela suddenly an outcast?

Pamela whipped around to her aunts. Why do you want to send me to Switzerland? she demanded.

Switzerland?

Oliver tried to remember what he knew about Switzerland - the Alps, snow, somewhere near France, on the other side of the world.

We told you, said Miss Fitchett sternly. It’s for your own good.

Oliver’s mind reeled. How could leaving her family and her best friend be for Pamela’s own good? Why now, out-of-the-blue, did her aunts want to ship her off to Switzerland of all places? Wait, there was skiing there - that would be cool. No, it didn’t sound like a vacation. What about school? They walked to school each morning together. They had classes together. Pamela helped him with his homework.

Pamela’s eyes narrowed in anger. She shoved her way between Miss Fitchett and Miss Maffit to the middle of the room. Oliver ducked back, still managing to keep an eye on things.

Why are you sending me away? said Pamela, turning back to them. Don’t you love me anymore?

Miss Pennyfeather howled, crying into her lace handkerchief. Miss Appley’s face twisted clearly distressed. Miss Fitchett and Miss Maffit turned to face Pamela. Miss Maffit nervously fingered the gold locket she always wore around her neck and even Miss Fitchett, who treated emotions like smelly old socks, sniffed back tears.

We can’t tell you the reason, Pamela, said Miss Appley. You must trust us.

You’ll like Swisserland, blubbered Miss Pennyfeather, that’s where they make the cheese.

Switzerland! said Miss Fitchett.

That’s what I said, cried Miss Pennyfeather, the cheese with the little holes.

Cheese? said Pamela. What does cheese have to do with anything?

Her aunts crossed the room and stood near the sitting area in front of a fireplace. The lighted jack-o-lanterns on each side of the mantle looked on with twisted snarls. The tattered material of the ghosts hanging in the corners fluttered without any breeze.

It has nothing to do with cheese, said Miss Fitchett throwing a cold glance at Miss Pennyfeather.

We should tell her what this is all about, said Miss Pennyfeather sniffing. Pamela, it’s about…

Miss Pennyfeather! said Miss Appley sternly.

Miss Pennyfeather’s lips trembled. She harrumphed and then pouted stubbornly.

About what? said Pamela sharply.

The teachers looked apprehensively from one to the other in a silent conspiracy. Pamela was having none of it and her face flushed about to blow like Moby Dick.

We should tell her, said Miss Maffit, her voice shaking.

No, said Miss Appley. The less said the better.

Pamela has a right to know, said Miss Pennyfeather, as frown lines creased her brow.

You leave tomorrow by airplane, said Miss Fitchett flatly.

I know exactly what this is all about, said Pamela fiercely.

No, you don’t, said Miss Appley.

It’s not what you think, gasped Miss Maffit.

Please tell her, pleaded Miss Pennyfeather.

Not another word, said Miss Fitchett angrily.

It’s Mr. Ogilby! exploded Pamela.

The offending name had a life of its own and rumbled deep and low throughout the rooms. Pamela stalked out of the parlor and through the foyer archway. Oliver flattened against the wall as Pamela passed by. She stomped up the stairs, each step creaking painfully under her feet.

Oliver, what are you doing here? snapped Miss Fitchett.

Chapter Two

Mystery Man

The teachers gawked at Oliver as if he were a burglar caught red-handed with the silver tea service. Oliver gawked back. He hadn’t done anything but the collective shock on his teachers’ faces made him feel guilty. He realized he had his mouth open and shut it.

Why all the mystery?

A glance over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror showed Oliver how Miss Fitchett had spotted him.

Well, what are you doing here? repeated Miss Fitchett.

He turned back to his teachers with a plastered-on smile. Obviously, he was there for his lesson but why was he lingering in the hallway?

Admiring the jack-o-lantern, he said brightly referring to the evil-looking pumpkin under the mirror.

Do you like it? said Miss Pennyfeather painfully. I just didn’t feel like smiling this year."

Scary! said Oliver pleasantly.

Oliver didn’t wait for any probing questions about how much he had heard. He picked up his instrument cases and made a beeline for the stairs. He wasn’t snooping and he was a little miffed as he climbed. If the teachers wanted to keep conversations private, they should lock the front door. As best friends, Pamela told him everything anyway. He told her almost everything. He had two unusual secrets he kept to himself. Then again, Pamela probably kept things to herself, but not this. She would tell him whatever this was.

The upstairs hallway had faded wallpaper and a threadbare runner. Dim light squeezed through the curtains on the window at the end. Oliver caught sight of Pamela turning up the stairway by the window. The bedrooms were on the third floor. Pamela’s bedroom was at the front of the house overlooking the entrance. He wasn’t